The Science of Knowing
by eigna
Summary: She slips in quietly, long after the sun has set, long after the neighbors have settled down for the night and the building has been left in silence. HouseCuddy


Title: _"The Science of Knowing"_  
By: Angie  
Pairing: House/Cuddy  
Rating: NC-17  
Spoilers: Post-ep for 3x12 – "One Day, One Room".  
Disclaimer: No, I don't own either of House or Cuddy. Unfortunately. I'd have so much fun with them (and more importantly, _they'd_ have so much fun with _each other_).  
Summary: She slips in quietly, long after the sun has set, long after the neighbors have settled down for the night and the building has been left in silence. 

She slips in quietly, long after the sun has set, long after the neighbors have settled down for the night and the building has been left in silence. She has become a master at this, at sneaking in after dark; had he not been waiting for her, he knows he never would have heard her enter the apartment. But he has been waiting for her, because this is what she does. She comes to him.

He hears the muted sounds as she wriggles out of her coat, then the soft thud as it hits the floor. He can picture the small frown on her face as she looks down at it, knows she's contemplating picking it up, but fatigue apparently wins over practicality, because he doesn't hear her pick it up and hang it properly. He's stopped telling her to leave the hospital earlier; she doesn't listen -- not that he ever really expected her to.

The bedroom door creaks slightly when she slowly pushes it open, and then he hears her relieved sigh as she rids herself of her shoes, no doubt thankful to finally be feeling nothing but the soft carpet under her tired feet. He knows her high heels make her feel powerful. He also knows she secretly kicks them off in the sanctuary of her own office.

He follows her dark silhouette with his eyes as she moves silently through the bedroom, and he knows she's doing it for him, not wanting to wake him if he's asleep. She knows how rarely sleep comes to him, and he lets her do this for him. Or maybe he just wants to watch her in the dark without her knowing. There is something about watching her when she thinks no one's looking; the way she moves, the way she lets her ever present guard down. The way she hisses almost inaudibly as she stubs her toe against the bed frame because she refuses to turn the lights on. It makes him smile.

The unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down fills the room, and then her skirt slips to the floor. Even in complete darkness, his eyes appreciate her toned legs. She's got the legs of a dancer, and for a moment or two he suddenly finds himself wishing he could take her dancing. The skirt is quickly followed by the low-cut blouse and bra and then the pantyhose that she hates so much and wears only out of necessity. He tells her to stop wearing them if they bother her so much, but she claims it would be unprofessional for her to walk around the hospital without them. He has never understood that claim; he never wears his lab coat. When he tells her this, she'll simply glare at him, as if he just proved her point.

She slides into his bed -- it barely dips underneath her weight, as if it has been expecting her along with him -- and pulls the covers up to her chin. She always says his bedroom is too cold, but he likes it that way, and she never does anything to change it. Instead she uses his body to warm up, but tonight she's too far away and he frowns. Enough with the pretence of sleeping. He reaches for her, his hand lightly touching her shoulder in that delicate way she never knew for certain he had in him, and then her head is resting against his chest, her hair tickling his face, her naked breasts pressing against him, and his arms find their already familiar way around her small body almost on their own. He breathes her in; she smells like the cold outside. She smells like the shower he knows she took before leaving the hospital.

She snuggles up against him, nuzzling her nose against the hollow of his throat, drawing a low murmur of appreciation from him, and he can feel the tiny smile on her lips. Her bare leg comes to rest over his good one, and her freezing feet rubs against his calves, desperately trying to steal some of his warmth, and he lets her, because his body is reacting in all kinds of extremely pleasant ways to her ministrations.

"I thought you were sleeping," she says, her breath hot against his skin.

"I didn't think you were coming," he replies, because he doesn't want her to know that he's been waiting for her, but she already knows. Everybody lies.

She lets him get away with it. He knows this as she breathes slowly against his neck; she always does in these situations, and he silently thanks her for not trying to change him. She challenges him, she drives him crazy, but in the end, she never tries to change the essence of who he is.

Ironically, she has changed him. Or, at least, he's beginning to change. He feels a closeness with her that he hasn't felt since Stacy; a closeness he hasn't _wanted_ to feel, and it both scares him and comforts him. Half the time he tries to joke it off, even to himself, e_specially_ to himself. But he knows, and -- even though she never tells him so -- she knows as well. Sometimes when she lies on top of him in the middle of the night, she will look down at him with that enigmatic smile he's still trying to figure out but never will. She'll run her fingers through his hair, and then her eyes will soften before she'll lean down to place a small kiss on his lips. She knows.

Yes, she drives him crazy, and he drives her just as insane, but they still accept each other. It's give and take. It's their game. It's who they are, and who they always will be, no matter who and what they seemingly become in the secluded darkness of the night when all the layers have been stripped. They're still them.

He has never been one to find or look for refuge in another person, not since early childhood, but she makes him want to lose himself in her. She always catches him. He's not willing to admit it yet, but he is falling for her completely. It's inevitable; it has been ever since the first time she let him know he wouldn't get away with his crap anymore.

He tugs her closer, and she sighs against him as his hands travel down the path of her spine, coming down to trace the outline of her silky underwear that matches her discarded bra, his fingertips teasing her skin where he knows it affects her the most. He knows her body almost better than he knows his own, and smiles when she reaches down to help him slip her panties off. When she taps his hip, he raises his lower body obligingly and his own underwear follows shortly, tugged down his legs by her eager hands.

No words are needed as she straddles him, and she knows exactly how far back she can place her weight without hurting him. The latest Vicodin is still fresh in his system, the pain having come down to a seven. Her gentle but firm hands on him pushes it down to a six, and he sits up to meet her, catching her lips with his own, running his tongue over her bottom lip until she finally lets him in with a release of her breath.

Their kissing is like everything else in their lives; a constant battle, their tongues duelling fiercely for control, with neither of them giving in, but where they finally find a finely tuned balance. Give and take.

He is hard against her, and she moans appreciatively into his mouth; her soft sounds make him want her even more. One of his hands supports her back, the other one coming up between their bodies, lightly flicking over one hardened nipple and then squeezing her breast, and she tears her mouth away from his with a gasp. She looks down at him, and he raises his head, meeting her gaze, and even in the dark he imagines he can see her eyes change to a darker blue, sparkling through heavy lashes.

He strokes away a stray unruly curl that has fallen over her face, and she kisses his fingers as they slide over her lips. The sheer intimacy of this moment should make him want to run away, because that's what he does, but he finds himself wanting nothing more than to stay.

Her gentle hands play softly over his chest and down his sides, and in one smooth move, she guides him inside of her, slowly sinking down onto him, and she catches the groan the falls from his lips as she squeezes her inner walls around him. They stay motionless for a moment as she adjusts to him, and then she lets her head fall down against his shoulder as she wraps her legs around him, hooking them behind his back, and he holds her close as her entire body hugs him.

He shouldn't be surprised, but he is; surprised that she knows better than himself what he needs. He does need this; her closeness, the slow and gentle way her hands knead his back while his own come down to cup her behind, moving her body against his own in slow strokes.

Their movements are unrushed, almost tender; the hushed words in his ear quiet, soft. They move in perfect synchrony with each other, in a dance known only to them; a dance that no one but those who watches them really closely would ever believe they were capable of, but that comes as naturally to them as their daily verbal battles. It's as if they have done this their entire lives.

It isn't always slow, it isn't always gentle, but tonight this is what he needs, and for some reason, this is what she needs, too. She turns her head to breathe in his scent as one of his hands tangle in her thick hair, holding her to him. She presses her mouth against his neck, tasting him. His breathing grows quicker and he uses his hold on her to pull her up for another kiss, and she meets him greedily, drinking him in.

The pace of their bodies escalates along with their kisses; her chest heaves against him, her nails dig into his shoulders, and he kisses her even harder, biting down on her bottom lip and then soothing it with his tongue. She begins to clench around him, taking him even deeper, making the blood rush faster and faster through his veins, and then she begins to tremble in his arms. She sobs into their kiss, crying out as pleasure rips through her body. He follows her mere seconds later, wave after wave hitting him, and he falls back against the bed, taking her with him.

She slumps heavily against him, her legs resting on either side of his narrow hips, but he welcomes her weight, holding her tightly to him, their kisses wet and sloppy. Their breathing gradually slows down along with their pulses as they come down from their high. She finally stretches out, her body covering his like a warm blanket, but he feels the small shiver that runs through her, and pulls the covers back over them for more warmth.

She lays her head over his heart, listening to still slightly racing beat in his chest, placing a tiny kiss against it. She always does this; she seems to find comfort in it, and he always lets her, drawing lazy circles with his fingers across her back.

"Do you want talk about today?" she asks softly, her breaths still coming out in shallow puffs against his slick skin.

"No," he answers honestly, but he wishes he could, wishes he wanted to. And she knows not to push him.

"I'll listen when you're ready," she simply says, once again accepting him. Like always.

He strokes her hair and closes his eyes. "I know," he nods.

Fin.


End file.
